To Nobody, To Somebody

Kat. Kat. Kit Kat.

God that was stupid, but, if I’m being honest here, we were stupid. 90 m.ph. through Golden Gate Park stupid.

But you should be able to get away with some stupid, right? At least a little?

Not really though. Stupid tends to win. When you moved away, your mom?

Yeah, she thought she was being smart. From her perspective though…

No, let’s keep the focus on you.

Because you were something to focus on. That’s minimizing it, Kat. Minimizing you, but I can’t lie. You were fine as hell. And not to sound obsessive or anything, but I still see you. I don’t see you, but I still see you. Like the barista at Joe’s? She’s you.

Except we both know she’s not.

Yeah, your mom was being smart. Maybe not smart, but she was trying. She knew. I mean, look, that neighborhood in Daly City was alright. It was better than ours anyway. And your dad said he’d pay for that Catholic school. Those Catholics would whip you into shape. Of course they would.

So anyway.

I don’t get it though. Looking back, I just don’t get it. Do you remember when Tabitha — you know, Tabby, senior when we were freshman? Do you remember how she died? A month before graduation? I mean, shit. No seat belt. Drunk. Seriously. We were hit by that. Changes to make. Tabby was gone.

You’d hope maybe we’d internalize it.

Yeah, I actually do get it. Our prefrontal cortexes were underdeveloped. How else were cave teenagers supposed to get the courage to charge a goddam mammoth with nothing but a sharpened stick? We were all impulse. Blah, blah, live fast, die young, blah, blah, puke.

No.

I don’t get it, because I grew up with you, and you know what? You will always be that little girl who shared your ice cream cone with me when I dumped mine on the Boardwalk. You will always be that kid who cried when the bottle landed on Jake O’Dell, because I was supposed to be your first kiss.

Spin the bottle. Ha. I pushed Jake and kissed you. Attaboy, right?

But Kat, I’m being serious, there was no way for me to save the day. I know that kid you were with, and I can’t see it.

I mean, were you with him at Rick’s when he maybe shorted that new kid? Did that kid call him out? I know your boy could scrap. Did he talk a little shit? What were you doing? Did you run your mouth? You could run your mouth, Kat. You could definitely do that.

Jesus, I never really thought about it, but did you short him?

How come your boy didn’t get hit? How come? Close range, Kat. I think he was aiming for you.

But I don’t know.

I hope you weren’t scared, Kat. I hope it didn’t hurt. I hope you didn’t see it coming. I hope it shut you off like a switch.

That new kid’s still incarcerated. Can’t get parole. Dipshit kid, dipshit prisoner. Your boy? He’s an accountant. Mother fucker posts TED Talks on his Facebook page at least twice a week. But Kat, you don’t know what TED Talks are. You don’t know what Facebook is.

You know what the worst part is? I think I lied when I said I still see you sometimes. Because Kat, no one sees you. And no one ever will.

You are no one, Kit Kat. No one, but some one. You are the smell in the air as we shared an ice cream cone in Santa Cruz, and the taste of mint gum when I kissed you that spring.

And you will never be anything more.